For the first time in years Tom and I are having a New Year's Eve party . . . only five guests, but still that's a sizable number in these little rooms. The plan is dinner first and then a card game and nobody staying up till midnight. This is in stark contrast to my sons' parties--J invited 60 people to his house, and P is hosting canoe friends for an annual New Year's gathering, and I'm sure everyone will stay up till 3. But because the boys and their partners keep texting me about their various plans and inquiring about mine, I am sort of feeling like an actual reveler.

P is cooking a vat of Mexican-style pork and tomatillos. J is constructing many Italian sandwiches. And I am making Julia Child's parmesan-crusted chicken breasts. They do have a lot of steps, but I can get everything done well ahead of time, and they reheat beautifully. The rest of the meal will be simple: roasted potatoes with pesto, sweet and sour peppers, a green salad, and a friend is bringing dessert.

Yesterday I got quite a lot done on my personal projects: wrote a poem draft, pulled together materials for the performance, read a chunk of "Lancelot and Elaine." This morning I'll get onto my mat, then spend a few more hours in the word world before I launch into chicken prep.

It's quite cold outside, and icy as well: yesterday's walk felt dangerous. But the little house is cozy, and Chuck is the happiest cat in town. Bonne chance to you all, on this final day of a stony year. I hope you are warming your hands at a flame.